You'd Do The Same For Me
by LadyEnterprise1701
Summary: When you have a captain who'll put himself in harm's way for your sake, the very least you can do is help him recover from the ordeal. My take on that poignant scene in "The Gamesters of Triskelion" where Captain Kirk takes Lieutenant Uhura's punishment for defying their captors. Rated T for descriptions of injuries.


_A/N: Takes place during "The Gamesters of Triskelion," an episode I actually don't really care for...but there's one scene I find interesting, where Uhura refuses to beat another prisoner and Kirk demands that he take her punishment. I will admit to worsening Jim's condition far beyond what the episode indicated, but I think it's far more realistic of actual beatings. Considering the wounds he inflicted, he shouldn't have been in nearly as good a shape afterward._ _This story continues my ongoing Kirk/Uhura universe which began with "First Impressions" and builds up to "I Am Not Afraid" (although I plan to start writing more post-IANA stories after this one). Also briefly references the previous story, "The Wonderful Thing About Tribbles."_

 _One more thing: I'm in the process of making all my Internet pseudonyms "LadyEnterprise," hence the name change. I'm keeping "The Patriette" in my name, though, until my readers get used to "LadyEnterprise." Hope that clears up any possible confusion!_

* * *

"You now bear the mark of a fine herd. But I must warn you, any further disobedience now that you are full-fledged thralls will be punishable by death."

Lieutenant Nyota Uhura lowered her fingers from her new thrall collar and glared daggers at the thin, black-robed man who'd delivered the threat. Galt, Master Thrall of Triskelion, looked more like a cadaver than a living being, she thought, what with that papery, slightly-mottled skin of his that looked like it might fall apart at a touch. His appearance, however, didn't make her own skin crawl as much as his utter lack of emotion did.

 _He makes Mr. Spock seem like a comedian, in comparison._

"You will now be returned to your quarters," Galt intoned. "You will rest and prepare for your next exercise."

"And vhat vill _that_ be?" Chekov hissed, his Russian accent stronger than usual. Nyota noticed that happened whenever he got angry—which, to be honest, was fairly often. Chekov had a healthy temper and an even healthier sense of justice. "Seeing which of us can run ze fastest from one of your goons with a ball and chain tied to our ankles?"

Galt merely blinked slowly and turned his pale eyes on Chekov, then on the man struggling to stay on his feet between Nyota and the young Russian. Nyota was trying _not_ to look too hard at the captain, but the shift of Galt's attention broke her resolve. She swallowed hard. Captain Kirk breathed hard, his hands still tied behind his back. The skin beneath his tattered shirt and oppressive "training harness" was bruised and bloody from the punishment that should've been for her.

 _It should've been me. I shouldn't have let him take my place, I should've—_

"You will be informed in due time of the next exercise, Chekov," Galt droned. "For now, be content with the rest period granted you."

Captain Kirk's right knee gave out. Nyota gasped and tried to catch him as carefully as she could, but her arm brushed against the wreck of his back and he groaned. Chekov sprang into action, too, and seized the captain's opposite arm.

"I'm all right, I'm all right," the captain gasped.

"No, you're not," Nyota snapped. She jerked her gaze back to Galt and tried to school her expression into something like pleading submission. It probably wouldn't help her case if she looked like she wanted to strangle the Master Thrall. "Please, don't make us go to our separate cells. Let us take care of our captain. Can't you see he's terribly hurt?"

"Because of you?" Galt replied.

Nyota's blood froze. Captain Kirk lifted his head. His hazel eyes burned with new anger.

"Don't pull her into this," he growled. "Don't you _dare_ —"

"Keptin, don't," Chekov begged, gripping his arm. Captain Kirk gave up trying to get to his feet, but Nyota still felt him trembling.

She could tell it wasn't simply because he was in incredible pain.

Galt watched them a moment more. Nyota forced herself to meet his unsettling gaze.

 _Please…please don't separate us from him this time, just this once…_

"You may tend to your captain. But when this rest period is ended, you must return to your own quarters."

Nyota pursed her lips and gave a sharp nod. "Agreed."

"It is not in your power to agree or disagree," Galt replied. He turned mechanically with a light swish of his robes, and was gone.

Not even the exit of the most bad-tempered Federation bureaucrat from the bridge of the _Enterprise_ would've made Nyota so glad to see a person take his leave.

* * *

The walk to the underground tunnel where they'd been kept like caged animals was long and agonizing. The captain did his best to walk steadily, but several times he almost collapsed. Under the watchful eye of their three drill-thralls, who didn't say a word or offer a bit of help during the entire journey, Nyota and Chekov tried to support and encourage him.

She glanced back at one point, intending to telegraph murder with her eyes at the drill-thralls. Lars merely leered at her and Tamoon looked mildly entertained, but Shahna looked…not quite remorseful, but definitely deflated. Her too-big eyes were softer and her lower lip protruded in a little pout that, under different circumstances, would've tugged at Nyota's heartstrings.

As it was, Nyota willed herself to simply be angry that Shahna just stood there and watched.

When they reached the cell where Captain Kirk had been confined, Lars shut the barred door behind the three officers. It locked with a dull, echoing clang. Nyota ignored it.

"Over here, Pav, on the bed," she ordered Chekov. He dutifully shifted his end of the captain's weight. Nyota tossed her hair out of her sweaty face and tried to smile.

"No offense, Captain, but you're heavy."

Captain Kirk let out a short breath that she accepted as a laugh. "S-sorry…McCoy's…been getting onto me about that…"

Nyota's chest twisted at the mention of the ship's CMO, but she refused to let her mind wander over the grim possibility that she might never see him— _or Spock, or Hikaru, or Scotty, or Chris_ —again. She and Chekov eased the captain into a sitting position and she fumbled with the awful training harness.

"Ze clip is here," Chekov murmured, popping it loose. "And another…"

Nyota nodded and unfastened the clip on her side. They worked it off the captain's shoulders as gently as they could. Once it was gone he slumped forward, only to jerk upright with a groan as the motion tugged the skin and muscles of his back in unpleasant directions.

"We're going to have to clean these gashes," Nyota muttered, her stomach churning. "Do we have any water in this room?"

"Umm…" Chekov twisted around. His dark eyes brightened. "Yes! Look, a jug!"

Nyota turned her head. Her gaze landed on the jug, still on the table from the captain's interrupted meal only an hour ago. "Thank God. Go get it, Pav. I wish we had some medicine…"

"Don't worry about it," Captain Kirk whispered.

Nyota jerked her head around in surprise. He was almost as white as Galt and he looked like he might be sick any moment now, but he somehow found the strength to smile weakly at her. His hands lay limp in his lap. Nyota swallowed, touched one of them, and realized that it, too, was bleeding. She gently pushed up his sleeve and saw his wrists had been rubbed raw by the leather thong used to jerk them behind his back.

 _For me. For ME…_

 _Don't! Don't think about it. You can think about it later, right now you've got to take care of him, stay focused!_

She suddenly realized he was staring at her. Nyota gave herself a shake and snapped back into business mode.

"We've got to get that shirt off if we're going to clean that wound, Captain. Do you mind?"

He looked as if the idea itself was the worst one that had ever popped into his mind, but he shook his head. Chekov had come back with the water jug. Nyota examined the tattered shirt.

"I want to get this off without him having to raise his arms."

"Zhen…" Chekov sat down on the bed and gripped the bottom of the shirt, at the small of the captain's back, with both hands. "Zhen we do like so." He ripped. "And zhen up here at ze collar…"

"No no no, just undo the zipper!" Nyota cried. "I don't want to risk hurting him."

Between the two of them the job was done fairly quickly. Nyota laid the torn, bloody garment at the end of the bed and set to work examining her captain with the detached, objective eye of a nurse with her patient.

"Lie on your stomach, Captain," she murmured. "I've got to take care of these wounds."

He nodded, and her admiration for his courage skyrocketed as he tried to obey. He gritted his teeth, he squeezed his eyes shut, but after a few horrible moments he finally lay flat on his stomach, breathing hard but without making any other sound. At Nyota's order Chekov ripped a relatively clean strip from the torn shirt. She dipped it into the water…

 _Oh God I can't do it._

The sight of several small stripes and one long, vicious gash from the rawhide whip made her want to gag. Blood oozed from the wounds; the flesh at the edges had turned an angry red tinged with purple. He quivered with pain. Nyota blinked furiously. She would _not_ cry and she would _definitely_ not risk a stray, salty tear plopping onto this mess.

 _For me…for me…_

"Cheek-ov!"

Tamoon's unnaturally deep voice called from the cell door. Nyota jumped at the sound. Chekov grimaced.

"Cheek-ov! I have something for you!"

"Go," Nyota said, as grateful for the chance to get Chekov's attention away from her trembling hands and she was concerned that the drill-thralls were just trying to disrupt their ministrations. "I'll take care of this."

He looked doubtful (and a little betrayed), but he obeyed. Nyota drew a breath as his footsteps faded. She glanced at the captain's face. He was gazing straight ahead, all the usual, vibrant intensity gone from his beautiful hazel eyes.

"This may hurt, Captain," she whispered. She reached for one of his hands and curled her fingers around it. "I need to do it, though. Do you trust me?"

He blinked and his eyes focused again, flicking towards her with a corresponding, raised eyebrow. "Absolutely…Lieutenant."

Nyota nodded, her throat too clogged to speak. He stared at her a moment, then adjusted his hand so their fingers were all but interwoven—just for a second or two before he released her. She held her breath and gingerly touched his back with the wet cloth.

He stiffened with a sharp intake of breath, clenching the edge of the bed so hard his knuckles whitened. Nyota's heart pounded and bile rose in the back of her throat, but she gritted her teeth, swallowed hard, and gently wiped away the blood and sweat and grime, dipping the cloth into the water jug when it became too saturated and red. When Chekov returned, she was so focused on keeping it together and not looking at the captain's face that she hardly noticed.

"Sorry," he whispered. "She vanted to flirt but I got away. Look what she gave me, though!"

Nyota looked, not really interested, until she saw the little brown jar.

"Shahna says it is a salve. She says it vill help him heal quicker."

Nyota blinked, jerked her head over her shoulder. The two women were still watching; Lars had obviously stalked off, uninterested. Tamoon had an insipid, mildly-interested look on her face, but Shahna's eyes were intense, her lips pursed with concentration. She caught Nyota looking at her and nodded.

 _Huh._

"Are you…are you nearly done?" Captain Kirk gasped.

Nyota shook herself. "Almost. I'm sorry, sir…"

"Lieutenant, if you apologize again I'll—" He squeezed his eyes shut as she touched his back. "I'll feed your pet tribble so many complex carbohydrates, you'll have a full-fledged nursery on your hands."

Chekov snickered. Captain Kirk opened one eye and grinned weakly at the young ensign. Nyota found herself smiling, too. If anything, his wry humor was back, and that made everything easier.

 _A_ little _easier, anyway_ , she thought as he flinched again under her anxious hands.

* * *

Eventually Shahna and Tamoon wandered off. Nyota assumed the so-called Providers had other ways of monitoring their prisoners—but she didn't worry about it too much. There was no way the three of them together could come up with any mischief. Not with Jim Kirk hurting like this.

By the time she finished cleaning his back, the whiplashes didn't seem quite as horrific as she originally thought. They were thin, clean gashes, quick to bleed but not so deep that Dr. McCoy would've had to put him in regen immersion. She applied the salve Shahna gave Chekov as carefully as she could. Almost immediately the captain relaxed and released a long, weary sigh.

"Oh, that feels good," he moaned.

"Maybe it has some kind of painkiller in it," Chekov suggested.

"I don't care what it is, it's _cold_. Uhura, Uhura…my shoulder…"

Nyota quickly dipped her fingers back into the jar and applied the salve to the wound, just beneath his shoulder blade. As she did her sensitive fingertips touched an old scar; it took her only a second's puzzlement to realize it was where the Andorian assassin had stabbed him during the hair-raising journey to Babel a few months ago.

By the time she was finished the captain was asleep, all but confirming Chekov's suspicions about the painkiller. Nyota screwed the top back onto the jar and looked at the young Russian. He sat on the floor, arms folded over his knees, dark eyes mournfully watching their captain's serene face.

"Are you all right, Pav?" Nyota asked softly.

Chekov roused from his thoughts with a start. He shrugged and dropped his chin on his forearms. "I have never seen him like zis."

"I know." _And it's my fault._ "It's killing me."

Chekov looked intently at her. "You did ze right thing by refusing to hurt zat man, you know."

"Maybe," Nyota whispered. "But I should _never_ have let the captain take my punishment. _Stupid_ , old-fashioned chivalry…"

"You might have _died_ , Lieutenant!" Chekov whispered earnestly. "And even if you hadn't, do you think he could have sat there and done nothing while those cossacks hurt you?"

In spite of herself and through her tears, Nyota laughed. "Oh, Pav…you and your Russian references."

He smiled sweetly and shrugged. Nyota sniffled, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. As she lowered it she let her fingers trail gently into the captain's hair. She didn't care if the endearing ensign saw or if Jim Kirk might still be barely-awake. She brushed the golden hair back from the strong, handsome face and something in her stirred at the warmth of his skin.

"He vill be all right," Chekov said softly. "It isn't like vhen he was stabbed. Dr. McCoy made him stay in Seekbay for a veek, remember? This…this is nothing. Especially if zat medicine works. _I_ think zhey look better already."

Nyota nodded, still studying the captain's sleeping face. "Yes," she murmured, withdrawing her hand. "Try to get some sleep, Chekov. I'm pretty sure it's night…I don't think Shahna and your pretty orange friend would've left us if they weren't getting some rest themselves."

Chekov snorted. "I do not think Tamoon is as feminine as she tries to appear."

Nyota smirked, but Chekov didn't offer any further details. He unfolded himself on the floor and tucked his hands behind his head; the position, however, didn't prove comfortable and he ended up turning over on his side and curling up in a fetal position. By the time Nyota tiptoed to the table to put away the water jug and the bloodied shirt, she could tell by his steady breathing that he was sound asleep.

She, however, paced the floor for a long time with her arms folded over her chest, her fingernails drumming against her elbows and her bottom lip caught between her teeth. The _Enterprise_ had no way of finding them…at least no way that she could think of. That, of course, didn't mean that Mr. Spock couldn't figure _something_ out. But still…it would take time. Time that she, Chekov, and Captain Kirk might not have.

Especially if the Providers were putting down bets that "the newcomers will have be destroyed."

 _I could strangle the Providers myself, whoever they are._

"Lieutenant."

The word was delivered in a hoarse, weak voice. Nyota whirled and saw the captain trying to sit up. She let her arms drop and rushed to him.

"No no no no no!" she gasped, jerking her hands back before she could instinctively touch the fragile skin. Captain Kirk waved her away, easing himself up with stiff, ginger movements.

"I'm all right," he whispered. "Is there any water?"

Nyota cringed. "Nothing clean, sir."

Captain Kirk sighed and gave a weary nod. Nyota sat down beside him and leaned back. His wounds hadn't stretched open during his change of position. In fact, that salve seemed to be doing wonders; the torn skin already looked much less angry.

"Chekov gave up, I see," he whispered.

"Yes, sir. I told him to go to sleep."

Captain Kirk shot her a faint smile. "Whatever would we do without you?"

Nyota tried to smile back. He chuckled and carefully bent his head. When he spoke, his voice was so low that she had to lean her head close to catch it.

"I have a plan."

Nyota frowned. "What kind of plan?"

He kept his head down, but raised his eyes towards the cell door. She was glad to see the old purpose and determination flashing in them again. "They'll separate us in the morning. I doubt they'll want to put off our next 'training exercise' very long…"

"You're in no condition to fight like that again," Nyota hissed. "If those wounds open up—"

"I didn't say they were idiots, Uhura," he countered gently. "If we're as valuable as they indicated with all that betting of their precious 'quatloos,' I doubt they're going to endanger any of our lives now."

She crossed her legs and folded her arms. "They should've thought of that before they nearly had you beaten to death."

He turned his head towards her and she glared at him sidelong. Not that she was angry at him …necessarily. She tried to convince herself she was angrier with Galt.

But even she knew, deep down, that she wasn't being totally honest with herself.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he whispered.

Nyota pursed her lips. "You should've let me take the punishment, sir. It was my choice not to strike that poor man. You weren't responsible—"

Captain Kirk's eyes hardened. "You think I could've sat there and watched that brute beat you with a rawhide whip, Lieutenant?"

Nyota's pride faltered. Somehow it sounded a lot different coming out of his mouth than from Chekov's. When she remained silent the captain shook his head and looked away, and there was no mistaking the hurt—emotional, not physical—rolling off him.

"If it makes you feel any better, I would've done the same if Chekov had been in your place."

Nyota lowered her head. "Captain—"

"If Chekov can subdue his drill-thrall when she brings him his meal, that'll take care of her. As for you and Lars…you'll have to be careful. We've already seen that he's…less than a gentleman."

She shuddered, remembering Lars' groping hands. Thankfully he had been so startled by the sound slaps she gave each one (along with his face), he hadn't done much more than cop a feel. Still, the threat of rape and the captain's furious, desperate shouting on the other side of the corridor had been terrifying.

 _And that makes the second time in a day where he's been worried about me._

"What about you and Shahna?" Nyota whispered.

He made a scoffing noise. "I can handle her."

Nyota raised her eyebrows. "Uh-oh."

"What?"

"I have a feeling you're going to try and sweep her off her feet."

"You have a better idea, Lieutenant?" he teased.

Nyota thought of Shahna's haughty demeanor and raised her eyebrows even higher. "If you can charm her then you can charm anybody. Sir."

"Want to bet on it?"

Nyota rolled her eyes. "Gambling is prohibited among a starship crew, Captain."

"We're not _on_ a starship. Captain Kirk bids two thousand quatloos he can make the drill-thrall drop her defenses in thirty minutes or less."

Nyota snorted. He gave a short breathless laugh before making an awkward attempt to lie down again.

"Just my side, my side," he groaned when she tried to help him.

"All right," she murmured. He winced, shut his eyes, and clenched his jaw until he lay on his side, breathing hard as if the effort had exhausted him. Nyota checked his back— _still all right, thank God—_ and knelt on the floor beside the cot. She touched his hand and stroked it.

"Shh. Relax, sir, it's all right."

"Mmmph…it _hurts_ …"

"I know. Mr. Spock will come for us, just wait and see. Shhhhh…"

She raised her free hand to his forehead and ran her fingers through his hair. The captain swallowed, exhaled, and closed his eyes as she let her thumb move up and down along his broad temple. Nyota scooted closer to the edge of the bed. He breathed deliberately, trying to control the pain—she wondered if he was using Vulcan techniques Mr. Spock might've taught him—and squeezed her hand a little tighter.

"You missed your calling, Lieutenant," he whispered. "Maybe you should've been a nurse."

She smiled. "I don't think so, sir. When I was…oh, about five…my sister had a pet mouse…"

He opened his eyes with sleepy interest. She tried not to look at him, not while she was holding his hand and touching him like this.

"Well, the mouse escaped," she whispered, "and ran into the family cat."

"Oh no," he murmured, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

" 'Oh no' is right." Nyota kept her eyes on her hand as she moved it in and out of his hair. It was soft, finer than she'd ever expected. "The cat made short work of the poor mouse—and I fainted."

"Fainted?" Captain Kirk repeated weakly—not because he was falling asleep, but because he was trying not to laugh.

"Yes, sir." Nyota raised her eyebrows and clicked her tongue at herself. "I couldn't stand the sight of all the blood. And it wasn't that much, come to think of it. It _was_ a mouse, after all. But it was enough to knock me flat on the ground, believe me."

Captain Kirk frowned. His eyes flicked down and to the side, then back towards her, and this time Nyota found she couldn't look away anymore.

"Are you still…unsettled by the sight of blood, then?"

She opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again. "Yes, sir."

One light eyebrow shot upward, so reminiscient of a certain Vulcan. "Are you all right? Because I…I know _this_ couldn't have been…pleasant."

She pressed her lips together and leaned closer. "Sir, I—"

The rolling onslaught of everything she wanted to say came to a screeching halt on the tip of her tongue. _Sir, I love you. We all do but I don't think my feelings are all that professional and I don't think they have been for a while, and I'd do anything for you, I'd take a phaser beam for you, and can you possibly comprehend how you're not the only one here who'd rather die than see someone you care about suffer, don't you realize that's why I didn't want you to take that punishment in the first place?!_

But it never came out. Her face was very close to his and they were staring at each other like they both understood the significance of the heavy silence. Everything in her wanted to close the last few inches between them and kiss him so hard, neither of them would be able to think straight. Her chest throbbed with the wanting.

But if she kissed him, everything might change. Just like everything had changed between him and Janice, or between him and Helen Noel.

 _I'd rather die than lose what I already have with him. Camaraderie. Confidence. Humor. Real affection. Respect._

 _I'm a fool if I throw that all the way just because I want one silly kiss._

She gulped so hard she was sure he could hear it.

"Sir," she tried again, "I know you'd do the same for me."

His tense, questioning expression softened. He loosened his hand from her clasp and raised it to her face, his thumb stroking the little spot between her bottom lip and her chin. Nyota closed her eyes and shivered.

"I would," he murmured. "I would indeed."

* * *

When the cell door clanged open, Nyota lifted her head and peeled her eyes open with a groan. She'd fallen asleep on her knees beside the cot, her small hand trapped beneath the captain's. He was awake, his eyes bright and alert, lying absolutely still on his stomach. The footsteps of the drill thralls approached, but all he did was look straight at her and run his thumb along the top of her hand.

"It is time to resume your training," Lars' deep voice boomed. "Get up, all of you!"

Chekov scrambled to his feet as Tamoon flounced up to him. Nyota got up as fast as she could in spite of aching muscles and joints and helped the captain sit upright. He straightened his back with care and gave her a reassuring nod. A rough hand clamped on her elbow before she could ask him how he was feeling. She knew by touch and by the way Captain Kirk stiffened who it was.

"We have given him an unfair advantage as it is, allowing him to be tended," Lars snapped. "He does not need you to mother him."

 _You monster_ , Nyota thought. She jerked her arm out of his grip and sent him the fiercest glare she could muster through her lingering, sleepy haze. Lars reached for her arm again.

"Stop."

Captain Kirk's voice cut through the tension like a hot knife—and Lars actually froze. To Nyota's everlasting shock, the captain got to his feet with only the slightest trace of pain. He took Nyota by the elbow and drew her behind him, then peered at Lars with such cool, steely, daring defiance, Nyota thought she caught a slight contraction of the taller, broader Lars' throat.

"We may be your Providers'… _new toys_ for the time being," Captain Kirk said in a low, dangerous voice, "but don't be so sure of yourself. If you lay so much as a finger on her for the remainder of our time here, believe me: I'll find a way to make you wish you hadn't."

Silence fell in the crowded cell. Nyota held her breath. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Shahna had walked in and now stood off to the side, watching everything with those big, absorbing eyes of hers. Lars and Captain Kirk stared at each other, one looking more uncertain every second, the other standing with his head tilted back and his hazel eyes narrowed in a silent challenge.

The wounds on his back were closed and healing. From where she stood behind him, she could have brushed them with her fingertips if she'd wanted…or touched his arm, put her head on his shoulder…

 _Shut up, Ny._

Lars recovered himself. He inhaled, set his jaw, flicked his gaze at Nyota. "Come."

She looked at the captain. He looked at her, laid a hand on her shoulder. He only winced a little at the movement the gesture required.

"It's all right," he whispered. The small, private smile he gave her reminded her of the plan they'd discussed last night. _Charm Shahna, trap Tamoon, fool Lars._ "Take care of yourself, Lieutenant, and…don't believe everything you see."

Nyota blinked, puzzled, but didn't press him. "Take care, Captain."

" _Come!_ " Lars barked. He didn't reach for her, though, and simply bellowed the word like a petulant kid would at his mother. Nyota squeezed the captain's hand, trying to hoard all the warmth and reassurance she sensed him telegraphing to her when he squeezed back, before stepping away from him and into her captor's sullen wake.

It felt like a tearing and ripping, separating herself from him like that. Shahna slammed the cell door shut, closing herself and the captain off from his friends. But when Nyota looked over her shoulder, she could see him still standing tall and straight. Unafraid. Stubborn. Defiant. Just like he had yesterday when he demanded to take her punishment.

Nyota raised her hand in a wave. Captain Kirk gave her a slow, one-sided smile before lowering himself to an easy, nonchalant seat on the edge of his cot, his hazel eyes sly and deliciously warm as he cocked them up towards his drill-thrall.

A spark of jealousy abruptly flared in Nyota's gut until she remembered: _"Don't believe everything you see, Lieutenant."_ She dropped her hand and whirled, pulling in a shaky breath. The plan _was_ in action. She and Chekov had a job to do. So did the captain, and _he_ was counting on them. On _her_.

With that thought she squared her shoulders and tilted her head back, just like _he_ had done. And when Lars threw a spear at her with a scowl a few minutes later in the training arena, she grabbed it by the shaft and met his simmering gaze with a ferocious, unafraid glare of her own.

 _Because the captain would do the same for me._


End file.
